


A Wonderful Caricature of Intimacy

by Shewolf7878



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: A Fever You Can't Sweat Out (Album), Based On A Panic! At The Disco Song, Build god then we'll talk, F/M, Lawyers, Major Original Character(s), Prostitution, References from other songs as well, Sad Ending, Self-Hatred, shit gets real, sorry not actually about beebo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 14:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10220696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shewolf7878/pseuds/Shewolf7878
Summary: Who would want true, genuine beauty over the specially tailored, flawless plastic beauty, so abundant and accepted? This fake beauty has created such a wonderful caricature of intimacy.A falsified, cheap version of love.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my English assignment, I'm a year 10 student. The only guidline I was given was; write a short story between 600 and 1500 words long. So, since I couldn't think of what to write, I wrote a story based on my first interpretation of Panic!'s "Build God, Then We'll Talk", since it was my favourite song from "A Fever You Can't Sweat Out" at the time (right now I'm loving "London Beckons..."). It's not a completely accurate representation of the actual meaning of the song; I've since looked at genius lyrics. It was also marked 90% by my teacher and I'm pretty fucking happy about it!! Anyway, enjoy!

Disgust, fear, anguish, regret. Countless emotions flooded through her mind as she trudged down the barren streets. She had tried. She had tried so hard to turn on her heel and walk away from her life without looking back. But no, she had to glance back. Now it seemed she was walking the runway again, but instead of being held high by an Oscar-worthy fake bravado, her shoulders bore the shame of her submission to the ugly world she lived in.

And what an ugly world it had become.

Although she was clad in a thick, tan coat, she could feel the eyes of the strange men who surreptitiously lined these streets staring right through her modest attire and at the rosary tucked inside her lingerie. They all knew. It was inescapable. They had all seen her before, either on a passing billboard or on their television at home and they knew her awful business here. She briefly wondered what laced attire she had been wearing in the magazines their sons kept so well-hidden under their mattresses.

It disgusted her. She disgusted herself.

Her unspeakable actions justified the utter hatred she felt towards herself. She still felt they did despite what her counselor told her. She had tried, she had tried so desperately hard to change, to fix herself, to “be the better person in a bad situation”. It was a near-impossible task to stay clean in a pigsty but she had believed she could do it. Oh, how wrong she had been. “Be the better person in a bad situation”, her dim-witted doctor repeated the phrase to her daily.

As if it was so easy.

She walked briskly, despite her destination, though she was yet to decipher what was spurring her on. Perhaps it was the pouring rain…  
...No. She was already chilled to the bone by evils more bitter than the winter’s assault on the derelict streets. The rain was but a mere distraction for her wandering mind.  
Perhaps it was the possibility of each passing shadow pinning her to the ever-present brick wall beside her to rob her of what little she carried…  
...No. There was a lone police car patrolling the block, though god knows why, which would no doubt have frightened away petty muggers.  
Perhaps it was simply wishing for this whole ordeal to be over and done with, in the past far behind her…  
...Yes, that was probably it..

She had tried so hard to escape.

The evil world she had immersed herself in so very well seemed to follow her even to the most just of places. Her intelligent mind was still intact, despite what she had done to it. The countless hours immersed in law textbooks had sharpened her wit. She had one chance to be an honest citizen, to contribute to society. Despite her hard-earned degree, her resume was as dirtied as that of a convicted murderer. The only one to accept her was as dirtied as the past she was trying to escape, and had lead her to this dirtiest of places. She had to follow through with his late-night meetings that were “strictly business”; she hated how much she needed the extra money.

She rounded a corner.

Her destination appeared abruptly before her. She hadn’t seen the approaching signs standing on the intersection, the rusted, slightly illegible letters reading Fourth and Freemont St. The building her employer had directed her to differed not from the other assortment of substandard hotels littering the downtown, only by the inhabitant’s dirty deeds and the seemingly even lower quality of the structure. She wished she could go back to a time when she wouldn’t be caught dead in this place. The horrid smells of cigarette smoke and formaldehyde acted as a magnet, attracting the worst of people to spend their night and their cash; that is, if they weren’t paying in naivety.

The building seemed to be appealing, only because it’s just that unappealing.

Just before she turned to pass inside the rather unpleasant doorway, she took a final glance at her surroundings and noticed a flash of white which was very out of place. Focusing on the shopfront, she found a bridal store, faintly illuminated by a flickering street-light. It was closing down. 10, 20, 50 and 70% off clearance signs littered the windows. Wilted bouquets of roses hung sullenly in their stand, previously dried out but now dripping with the raindrops that had somehow intrusively made their way underneath the shopfront roof. The brief flash of white she saw was the only dress left in the shop, a flowing, laced gown; such a beautiful garment. That’s what lace is meant for, that’s true beauty, she thought to herself.

True beauty!

It was scarce in these times of scantily-clad commercial models and anorexic teenage girls. Who actually finds love and gets married in these days of hate, high divorce rates and parentless love-children? Who would want true, genuine beauty over the specially tailored, flawless plastic beauty, so abundant and accepted? This fake beauty has created such a wonderful caricature of intimacy.

A falsified, cheap version of love.

The dying street lamp just above the shop gave a last flicker before it burst suddenly, no longer illuminating the shopfront. It startled her more than it should’ve, causing her to shriek and tense up; these perilous streets had made her terribly anxious. She scolded herself for getting so worked up to the point of such unease. “Have some composure, where is your posture?” .She sighed, pushing her shoulders back and turning away from what was a small, warm candlelight in the dimly-lit darkness of the city.

She turned back to the entrance of the asbestos-filled building.

She turned straight into the metal badge waiting, arms crossed, at eye-level.

“Ma’m, may I ask what your business is here?” it said.


End file.
